


it's not what it seems in the land of dreams

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, as usual, author is incredible at tagging, based on a video i saw a while back of the boys talking about their various intelligence levels, boys that we love, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck', major joe/pete BROtp feels, patrick being exasperated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:12:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about being in a band is that no-one really understands how smart you are. </p><p>or</p><p>That time someone decided Andy was stupid and Joe was having none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not what it seems in the land of dreams

**Author's Note:**

> reviews are love, be nice!  
> clearly I don't own anything, that would be slavery, and I'm a firm supporter of the emancipation proclamation!

The thing about being in a band is that no-one really understands how smart you are. 

So, like, Pete gets up on stage and does quasi-half-flips while shredding the bass, and Andy beats the living shit out of the drums every night, and people think it's basically the most fucking awesome thing, ever. And they do interviews where they're asked about their education, sure, but it's mostly the trivial "Oh, so you dropped out of highschool to join a band?" or "Were you good at sports in highschool?" (Patrick's response remains the same; _I was so good at sports, I started a band._ )

But nobody knows or cares enough to ask about Pete's obsession with classical literature (he named his dog Hemmingway for fuck's sake) or Joe's 2190 on the SAT's, so it's just generally assumed that they're all fucking dumb, and that the only good they can do the world is by spreading music. 

Which, to be fair, is all that Joe's really interested in doing, at this point, but it's still kind of a punch to the gut when he gets a call from the publicist at five in the afternoon on the bus, with Hemmy on his lap and Andy's head on his shoulder to tell him that the media has now labeled Andy 'the dumb one', and that she's behind it. 

 

He shouts, and rages, and ends up throwing his phone across the room because Andy is not fucking stupid, Andy is one of the wisest, smartest people he's ever known in his entire fucking life, and this is fucking ridiculous, this fucking publicity bullshit, but she won't back down. 

"It's good for the image of the band." Sandra insists, her voice frusturatingly calm. "If people think one of the members isn't as smart, they'll flock us, it'll mean thousands in record sales." And Joe wants to scream, wants to shout to the four winds that he doesn't give a fucking shit about the record sales, but instead he shatters his phone against the wall of the bus and ignores Hemmingway's distressed wheeze. 

But the worst part, the part that makes Joe's stomach churn and his body go hot, is that Andy hears all this, and just nods. 

"Okay." He says, all soft and contemplative, and Joe can't fucking handle that. 

"Okay? Okay? Are you fucking kidding me?" He's standing, now, didn't even realize that he had stood up until he's towering over Andy like Godzilla did with the Chrystler building, but he doesn't stop. "Andy, they're gonna tell the world that you're an idiot! They're gonna fucking lie to everyone about whether or not you're smart, just so that they can get better ratings. How can you just take that?" 

Andy gets up, slow and steady, like he always is, and his body presses close against Joe's, as smooth and natural as can be as his fingers slide up the younger boy's chest and into his hair. 

"Joe." He murmurs, stroking his thumbs over the drummer's temples, and it's all Joe can do not to wrap him up in his arms and hold him as close as he possibly can for as long as he can because this hurts. He settles for letting his hands rest on Andy's hips, still and restrained and not squeezing because he's afraid that if he does, he'll break. "This isn't the first time this has happened, okay?" It's the kind of quiet admission that Joe usually only gets right after sex, because Andy doesn't talk about his life before the band(s), doesn't often mention what happend to him pre-Joe, but when he does it's spoken as though he's treading on glass, like if he says the wrong thing, Joe will disappear.  Joe knows the feeling.  But that doesn't really help the anger building in his chest. 

"So, what, when you were in school?" He spits, and Andy doesn't recoil like anyone else does, just shrugs and nods sagely like the fucking Jedi-knight that he is. 

"I wasn't...the smart one. I never was." And he's too fucking calm, it's not fair how fucking calm he is about this. "I was the kid with the dead dad and the massive therapy bills." Joe curls his fingers around the lines of Andy's hipbones and tries not to growl like some kind of fucking feral animal at how fucking pissed he is. "I played drums in band, Joe. People don't exactly think the guy carrying the bass is Einstein."

"You went to college." Andy raises an eyebrow.

"So did Pete. Fuck, Pete made it within three months of graduating, but it doesn't matter." He shakes his head slowly, hands sliding down to frame Joe's face. "I don't _care_." There's something hard and hidden in his voice, and Joe feels like he's missing something, lets out a slow puff of breath, and feels his chest sink, all the fire going out of him as he lets his vice-grip on Andy go, stepping back.

"You should. You're..." He trails off, and shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face and turning toward the door. "You're better than this."

He leaves the bus, and Andy doesn't follow him.

-0-

He walks to the shitty corner store down the road from the venue, and buys a pack of ciggarettes, because fuck quitting if his publicist is gonna be a crazy bitch. In spite of the weird looks he gets and the one teenage boy who stops him asking for an autogrpah 'for his girlfirend' (although with shoes like that there's no fucking way he's getting it for any female friend) he makes it back to the buses within 20 minutes.

Which is why he's surprised by the fact that, in such a short amount fof time, the world appears to have ended.

Because Pete's pacing around on top of his and Joe's bus shouting incoherently into the phone, and Patrick is sitting with his head in his hands leaning against the wheel-well, and Dirty is curled in on himself on he pavement, and Andy is...nowhere to be found. And Joe just doesn't even have the energy to deal with this, so he slumps down on the ground beside Patrick and takes a long drag off his ciggarette before speaking.

"What. The. Fuck." He says slowly, and Patrick just shakes his head, letting his head loll back against the wheel.

"Pete just got a call from Sandra." He says lowly, thunking his head backward a few times before turning to look at Joe. "He's not happy."

"None of us are." Joe mutters. "But I'm not raving like a maniac on top of the van."

Patrick shrugs. "You're not Pete." He can't argue with that, so he juts his chin out in Dirty's direction, and Patrick sighs. "Punched in the face." He groans, and Joe raises an eyebrow.

"Pete?" Patrick closes his eyes. "I wish. Himself." Joe blinks and looks over at Dirty again. "He said if Andy was going to be called stupid, he'd...well, it was confusing, and it ended up...here."

"Speaking of Andy." Joe moves on, because fuck Dirty and fuck Pete, they can do whatever they want, but Andy's...gone. Patrick tips up his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, nodding slowly.

"He left right around when Pete started shouting. Said he was going for a walk." Joe takes another drag and lets out a puff of smoke that coils up toward where Pete is now sitting on the edge of the bus, still on the phone, because _fuck you, Sandra, fuck you, we're not here just to make you fucking money._ "He looked...kinda pissed, honestly."

 Joe takes a deep breath, and snuffs out his light on the ground next to him, heaving himself up off the concrete and moving to climb up the back of the bus to where Pete's sitting. He reaches out with Sandra mid-sentence and plucks the phone out of his hand, closing it uncerimoniously and tossing it down toward Patrick (who, by some strange miracle, catches it) and really, it ought to be Patrick up here, Patrick's his fucking boyfriend, but it's Joe, of course it's Joe. When Pete flips out, it's always Joe. 

He comes to rest sitting behind Pete, and reaches out, pulling the smaller man back against his chest in spite of the fact that Pete's entire body is as tense as a guitar string. He reaches up and gently brushes the bassist's hair out of his eyes, letting his chin rest on his shoulder. 

"Let it go, Panda." He murmurs, and he watches Pete tense just a little more before the fight leaves his body and he sags back against Joe, his head rolling to the side just slightly as his hands come up and curl around Joe's forearms. 

"S'not fair." Pete mumbles, and Joe just nods, rubs his thumbs over his elbows and holds him close. 

"I know, buddy." 

"No, but, like." Pete pulls himself up, and turns around, shifts himself so he's sitting in Joe's lap like some kind of giant fucking teddy bear. "It's...he's just..." He shakes his head, and Joe swallows thickly. 

"I know." Pete looks down and visibly deflates, resting his forehead on Joe's shoulder. 

"You should go find him." He says softly, turning to nudge Joe's neck with his nose, which Joe supposes means he's supposed to move in the direction he's being nudged. "I think...I  might have made him mad?" Joe nods slowly, and gives Pete one last squeeze before pulling away, sliding back down the ladder and landing with a soft thump on the ground. Patrick squeezes his shoulder as he steps up past him, climbing up toward Pete's open arms like the fucking good boyfriend he is. 

Joe paces around the side of his bus, resolutely ignoring the fact that Dirty has disappeared, probably to go get his face fixed, and heads toward Patrick and Andy's, kind-of sort-of praying that he's right.

He is. When he steps inside, Andy's there, sitting cross-legged on the back bed, with his eyes closed and his hair falling in front of his face. Joe stays as quiet as he can, stepping over boots and laptop chargers and moving as smoothly as he can around the bed to slide in beside Andy. 

It's second nature to curl his body around the drummer's like a snake, slide one arm around his waist and press his face into the small of his back while his legs fold up such that their knees are touching. By the time he's done contorting himself into a comfortable position, with his head on Andy's thigh and his stomach pressed against Andy's back, the older man's eyes are open, looking down at him with something that's hovering at a kind of disturbing point halfway between disdain and adoration. 

Joe's more used to the latter than the former.

But he's been a defining part of people getting upset before, so it's not such a difficult thing to deal with. 

"You're pissed." He says softly. Andy doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move, either, just kind of looks down at Joe and keeps being quiet and still. Joe slides his fingertips down and under the hem of Andy's shirt, lets them trace up over his abdomen, and presses his nose into his stomach. 

"I'm sorry." He mumbles, spreading his hand over Andy's solar plexus, and he feels more than hears the soft intake of breath. "For whatever I did." And finally, like some fucking continental drift, Andy shifts, pushes at Joe's shoulders until he's lying on his back in the bed, and moves to sit astride him, with his knees planted on either side of Joe's hips, and it's really, seriously not Joe's fault that his cock kind of twitches when he does that because come on, having an angry Andy Hurley on top of you is basically the hottest thing on earth. 

But beause he's a fucking incredible human being he forces himself to focus on Andy's face, not his groin, and that's enough to stop his dick in it's trakcs, because Andy doesn't cry, doesn't shout or scream or do any normal human thing that's done when you're angry, but right now he looks about as close to tears as Joe's ever seen him be, and it's all Joe can do not to just crush him to his chest as though that'll squeeze all the pain away. 

And then Andy speaks, and that's even worse, because his voice is supposed to be soft and sweet and fucking lyrical, not hard and harsh and fucking  _wrecked,_ that's Joe's job. 

"You act like I _want_ this." He rasps, and Joe's throat clenches tighter than a vice because he sounds so fucking _wrong_. "You, and Pete, and Trick, you act like I'm _okay_ with this." He shakes his head slowly, and his hands move to cup Joe's face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "I'm not okay with it being me." He says roughly, leaning down and resting their foreheads together. "I'm okay with it not being _you._ "

And right about then is when it clicks. Because Andy's quiet, and maybe a little shy, but he's not a pushover. He's not someone who just lies there and takes whatever beating he's given, it's part of what Joe loves about him. But if the alternative were Joe getting thrown under the bus, Andy would jump in a second, even Joe, with twenty years of built-up self-esteem issues, knows that. 

"Andy..." He breathes, letting his own hands come up to rest on Andy's sides as he tilts his head up just enough to press their lips together in what's got to be the world's softest fucking kiss. It's not so much a conscious descision as an instinct to flip them over, settle between Andy's legs and press his thumbs into his hips while he litters kisses over his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, any part of him he can reach. "I'm sorry." He whispers into the skin of Andy's neck, nuzzling it just a little with his nose, "I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry." 

And it's not exactly a miracle, but it's a damn near thing when Andy's fingers slide into Joe's hair and his own lips latch onto the spot where Joe's shirt has stretched down under his collarbone. "I love you." He murmurs, and it's a quiet admission, but its the best kind, and Joe's heart maybe skips a beat because fuck, he's really fucking head-over-heels, scream it off the rooftops in love. 

"I love you, too." 

Nothing's fixed, and nothings really any better, but in the morning, Joe will call Sandra and calmly explain to her that either she's going to stop or they're going to get a new publicist.

In the meantime, Andy's pulling off his shirt and slipping his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, and Joe can't really be bothered to think about Sandra. 


End file.
